Tom Has Someone to Love Him
by FlameHallow
Summary: Tom spares Peter and contemplates whether or not to tell him everything, including the truth about Dickie and Freddie's deaths.
1. Chapter 1

"Good things about Tom Ripley? Could take some time. Tom is talented. Tom is tender... Tom is beautiful... Tom is a mystery. Tom is _not_ a nobody."

Peter Smith-Kingsley smiled as he lay on his bed, placating the man who had become his best friend, the man for whom he developed very strong feelings. He stared dreamily towards a window view of the Italian seaside, unaware of Tom Ripley approaching him slowly with a tie in his hands. Tom, meanwhile, was trembling, holding back the sobs gathering in his throat.

Peter looked so peaceful when speaking well of Tom. He took in his friend, from the crinkles on the outer corners of his eyes when he smiled to the faint bergamot smell of his cologne. _I have to do this,_ he thought to himself, though every urge fought him with the intensity of a thousand soldiers.

"Tom has secrets he doesn't want to tell me, and I wish he would. Tom has nightmares. That's not a good thing. Tom has someone to love him. That is a good thing," Peter continued, his voice becoming equal parts somber and reassuring.

 _Tom has someone to love him,_ repeated Tom's thoughts. He studied Peter's lanky frame strewn across the bed and Peter's seaglass green eyes, which were now downcast. _Tom has someone to love him._

Tom slowly dropped the tie, and then collapsed onto the floor, letting the sobs escape. Peter sat up and rushed over to Tom, holding him securely.

"Tom, what is it?"

Tom continued to sob and Peter continued to cradle Tom in his arms. When Tom was ready to speak, he slowly stood up and sat on the bed, Peter beside him.

"I'm lost, Peter. I'm not Tom Ripley. I'm not Dickie Greenleaf. I don't know who I am anymore."

"What are you talking about?"

"Peter, I...no, if I tell you this, you would hate me."

"Tom, I could _never_ hate you."

Tom took a sharp breath, considering the pros and cons of telling Peter the whole truth. He trusted Peter, the way he trusted no one else. In a world filled with venom, Peter was pure. He was kind. He sought to understand and empathize. But Peter was a human being, and all human beings have their limits of what they will and won't accept. Furthermore, his attraction to Peter might have been clouding his judgment. Did he trust Peter because he adored Peter?

"I don't know if I can trust you enough to tell you," said Tom, and Peter responded with a hurt expression.

"Oh," was all Peter said.

"It's not that I don't trust _you,_ it's just...I've done some terrible things."

"We've all done things we regret. I sure have."

"No, but there's regrets and then there's _regrets."_

"Tom, I swear on the Complete Works of Shakespeare that I won't tell a soul anything that you tell me."

Tom searched himself for the correct way to frame his confessions, but his cowardice overtook him. He needed to come up with a confession that would satisfy Peter without making him suspicious.

"Peter...I love you."

Peter smiled.

"I love you too, Tom."

Tom and Peter shared a gentle kiss.

"Was that what you wanted to tell me?" asked Peter.

"For the time being," replied Tom. Peter was uneasy at Tom's crypticness but overjoyed by his declaration of love.


	2. Chapter 2

Sunset was approaching as Tom and Peter made their way to the top deck. Peter carried two glasses and a bottle of Cabernet in hopes of toasting the end of a successful trip. As they made their way toward the bow, they sang a few bars of "We're Called Gondolieri". Peter noticed Tom starting to shiver, placed his glasses and wine on the floor, and offered his black duffel coat. Though the coat swallowed much shorter Tom, he wore it happily, thanking Peter for his kindness. Peter then retrieved the wine, deftly balancing both glasses and the bottle.

"I'd like to propose a toast. Here's to...the continued Adventures of Tom and Peter?" asked Peter. Tom chuckled.

"Oh, Peter, you make us sound like Batman and Robin."

"Okay, how about just further adventures between two good friends?"

Tom liked the sound of that. He gave an approving nod and the two said "cheers" in unison. Tom allowed the Cabernet to linger on his palette as he drank in Peter's smile. Peter continued to hum the same tune, his velvety baritone being music to Tom's ears.

"I don't really want to go back," said Peter suddenly. "I just want this trip to last and last."

"Me too," said Tom in earnest.

"What will you be doing once we get back?" asked Peter, and then it suddenly dawned on Tom that him staying in Italy was a risk. Since Dickie was dead, his original objective to convince Dickie to come home was for naught, and since the police were on his tail and Marge was relentless, he could never fully be safe from being found out so long as he stayed. However, leaving Italy meant leaving Peter, and the idea of him saying goodbye was more than he could bear. _I can't think of that now,_ said Tom to himself. _Just let yourself enjoy one night, dammit. Just one night._

Tom then realized that he held his stare too long as Peter looked at him, puzzled.

"What's the matter? Do I have something in my teeth?"

"No, Peter, it's just...you're beautiful."

"Stop, Tom. You're making me blush."

They shared a comfortable silence as they watched the sun set. Tom then stretched and yawned.

"I think it's about time to call it a night."

"Yes, by morning we'll be back to the daily grind. We should savour the rest of our holiday while it lasts," replied Peter, echoing Tom's yawn. The two headed downstairs to the cabin. Once they both retired, Peter lay stretched out on the bed.

"Bed hog," said Tom with a laugh. Peter smiled.

"I'm 6 foot 2. I can't help it," he responded with an equally hearty laugh. He then motioned for Tom to join him.

"Are you sure?"

"If you are."

Tom meandered over to the bed, deciding whether or not he was ready to share his bed with another man, even if that man was the only person he'd ever say that he really loved. Peter was so trusting, so eager, so incandescently happy, that Tom couldn't help but feel glad as well. Even if he knew, given his marred history, his gladness was all-too-likely to be short lived. Once he settled on the bed with Peter, Peter pushed a blonde bang out of Tom's eye and sighed dreamily. Tom's blue eyes met Peter's green eyes and, at once, a teal ocean of passion seemed to wash over them as they both lost themselves to the pale glow of the moonlight and each other's company. When they woke, laughing as they untangled themselves from the sheets, Tom closed his eyes and contemplated if it was possible for this bliss to last.


	3. Chapter 3

While Tom showered, Peter got one last look at the upper deck, taking in his last few moments of vacation before he had to return to conducting and composition. He adored his job, of course, but the idea of taking a few days with no responsibilities but to drink in the moment was so attractive to him that its fleeting was extremely disappointing.

Peter stopped when he caught sight of a slender blonde in a peach sundress, a cigarette perched between crimson lips. _So it WAS Meredith,_ he thought. Meredith caught sight of Peter immediately and walked over.

"Peter Smith-Kingsley? You're the last person I expected to see here!"

"Hello, Meredith," said Peter, all politeness, kissing Meredith on the cheek.

"Dickie told me just yesterday that he hasn't seen you in months and, low and behold, we're all on the same boat!"

Peter paused. "Dickie told you?"

"Yes. Apparently he's trying to hide out from the police. They're on his heels. They suspect that he killed Freddie. Can you believe it?"

Peter was thoroughly confused. He furrowed his brow as he tried to piece together the information that Meredith was giving him. How could Dickie be on this boat? He saw Dickie's suicide note with his own two eyes. Was someone playing a trick on both of them? He attempted to change the subject to ease some of the tension.

"I saw you talking to Tom."

"Tom who?"

"Tom Ripley. You know, my friend. The American that Dickie's parents sent to Italy to persuade him to come home."

It was Meredith's turn to be confused. "What does Tom look like?"

"Blonde. A few inches shorter than me. Wears a lot of white."

"That sounds like Dickie."

Peter contemplated telling Meredith the truth about Dickie's demise. He hated the idea of hurting someone who seemed to care about his deceased friend, but at the same time, he felt that she deserved to know.

"Meredith, I hate to be the one to tell you this, and I apologize if the information is upsetting to you. But Dickie is dead."

Meredith glared at Peter.

"Dead?"

"Yes. The truth is, Dickie did kill Freddie, shortly before killing himself. He left a suicide note."

Meredith's frustration grew as her glare became more and more fervent.

"That's very interesting considering I was just talking to him yesterday. He was standing almost right where you are now."

Peter assumed that Meredith was in denial.

"I know you don't want to accept that he's dead, Meredith. I have a hard time accepting it myself. But he was tormented. He had demons that he couldn't fight."

At this point, Meredith was livid.

"Peter, you can knock it off with that pseudo-psychology bullshit. Something suspicious is going on. You said your friend Tom is here? Maybe he knows something about it. You said you saw me talking to him. Maybe you can get him to come out here and we can sort this out."

"I'll try," said Peter, trying to maintain his composure despite his own mounting frustration. "I'll see if he's out of the shower and then bring him up."

"Thank you."

Peter walked down into the cabin and Tom was putting pomade into his hair. Peter wondered for a second whether or not to forget the entire situation. It was clear that Meredith was angry and he didn't want to stir the pot. However, Tom seemed very much at ease and, perhaps, seeing a friendly face would help her.

"Tom, Meredith would like to have a word if you have a moment."

Tom froze in his tracks. _Oh shit,_ he thought, sifting furiously through his hair. Peter grabbed the pomade from the dresser and said "I think that's enough of that," and led Tom, who was still frozen in abject panic, up the stairs. Tom then came face to face with Meredith.

"See, Dickie, I told Peter that you were here and he didn't believe me."

Peter looked at Tom, then at Meredith, then at Tom.

"Tom, please explain to me what's going on!" he said, his voice starting to break with exasperation.

"Wait. _Tom?"_ asked Meredith.

"Yes, the two of you were speaking just yesterday, weren't you?" Peter asked Tom in a cadence that sounded almost like begging.

"I have to get out of here," was all Tom said. He walked to the stern, waiting impatiently for the boat to dock so he could get the hell out of there as soon as possible. Peter and Meredith continued to discuss their confusion.

"Wait, are you saying that Tom has been impersonating Dickie?" asked Peter.

"I've only ever known that man as Dickie Greenleaf. Never Tom Ripley."

"Why would he lie?" asked Peter, nearly heartbroken at his lover's deception.

"Maybe he killed Dickie and Freddie."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous. Tom? Tom Ripley? Preposterous."

"Is it?"

Peter shook his head. _No, it really isn't_ , he thought soberly.


	4. Chapter 4

Tom played Bach's Toccata with burning intensity while Peter set the table and picked up odds and ends in his flat to keep it orderly.

"The tone has switched from bleak to furious," remarked Peter as he put the kettle on. "Is peppermint tea okay? I'm clean out of English breakfast. One can never find PG Tips around here."

"Peppermint's fine," said Tom in a short, clipped manner. Peter was a bit taken aback by Tom's shortness of temper, but did his best to keep the conversation light.

"It's better here than it is in America, though. No offense to you Tom, your home country is lovely, but you do _not_ know how to do tea. It's all stems and cast-offs. Ghastly. Your coffee is usually quite nice, though the Italians probably do it best."

Tom inhaled sharply and played louder. Peter noticed Tom's ferocity growing and dropped the pretense.

"You know, it's very hard to keep conversation with you when I have to _shout over the piano!"_

Tom stopped and turned toward Peter.

"Thank you," Peter said. He then sat on the piano bench beside Tom. "What's the matter? You're hardly said a word since we returned. Did I do something wrong?"

Tom stiffened. He never, in a million years, thought he could be so angry with Peter. The idea of anyone being angry with gentle Peter seemed almost unfathomable. However, at that moment, he ground his teeth so hard that he was sure he wore chips in them. And he wasn't entirely sure where this anger came from. Peter didn't do anything wrong, necessarily, but seeing Peter and Meredith discuss Tom's lies in plain sight was more than Tom could bear.

"It looked like you and Meredith were having a pretty riveting conversation," Tom finally said. Peter put his hand on Tom's shoulder.

"We were."

"About what?"

"Well, about you, Tom."

"I knew it."

Peter sighed. "You've confused us both. You've...hurt us both," he said, punctuating the word _hurt._ "Meredith has believed for some time now that she's been having a love affair with Dickie, thinking you're Dickie. Why did you lie to her? Why did you tell her you were him?"

"I don't know, Peter. Meredith and I met at the airport on our way here. I wasn't even thinking when I made that lie. And I couldn't get away from it at that point."

Peter handled the next question with as much grace as a person could. "Are you...really Tom Ripley?"

Tom scoffed. "Yes, I'm really Tom Ripley, Peter. What a stupid question. Why would you ask that?"

"I don't know. It just seems a little odd to me that you would tell one person you're Tom and another person you're Dickie. Who you really are is kind of...lost in the shuffle."

Tom inhaled sharply again. Peter retreated.

"I apologize, Tom. I'm out of line here. I just know you're keeping things from me and I wish you wouldn't."

"Peter...I want to tell you everything. I do. It's just not the right time yet."

"Is it ever going to be the right time?"

"I don't know."

The kettle screeched and Peter poured the tea into cups. He offered Tom a glass and he sipped in, allowing the steam to coat a throat that felt raw, as if he had been screaming. Peter gave Tom the look of sweet sadness that Tom once found attractive but suddenly found maddening. He placed the tea cup back on the table and glared back at Peter.

"Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?" said Peter, thoroughly confused.

"Like a wounded puppy. I'm not ready and no amount of guilt tripping is going to make me ready."

"I'm sorry," whispered Peter, though the _wounded puppy_ expression didn't disappear. He simply walked out of the room and let Tom collect his thoughts. Tom balled his hands into fists, took a few deep breaths, turned back towards the piano, unclenched his fists, and played a requiem of his own creation. Peter stopped in the threshold, contemplating whether or not to reassure Tom, ultimately deciding against it.


	5. Chapter 5

Herbert Greenleaf sat at a table in the corner outer patio of the Piazza de Spagna, slowly sipping a black coffee, nosed buried deep in his newspaper. Tom looked around for a moment before seeing a grey trilby poking out from the top of paper and sat beside him.

"Thanks for meeting me on such short notice, Tom," said Herbert, his voice urgent. Tom grew stiff as a poker as he slowly descended into his chair and called over a waiter.

"Uh, I'll take one of those cappuccinos," said Tom awkwardly. "Grazie."

"Uno cappuccino in arrivo," responded the waiter with a nod. Herbert slid the newspaper towards Tom.

"Tom, we have a problem. Marge is speaking to the press. She's telling them that she's absolutely convinced of you murdering Dickie. Now, I know you didn't kill my son. You're no killer. But she's running a smear campaign right now and something has to be done. I've placated her for a while but I don't know these people as well as you do so I'm a little out of my element."

Tom peered at Herbert. The usually unflappable Mr. Greenleaf spoke with a quiet desperation. Then he leaned over closely and whispered, to confirm his panic, "what do we do?"

Tom scanned his brain in search for answers. The first logical explanation would be to leave Italy immediately. However, he also knew that leaving would fuel more suspicion, suspicion he wasn't sure to welcome. The waiter returned with Tom's cappuccino and he thanked him before continuing his train of thought.

"Marge isn't well," said Herbert with equal parts worry and disdain. "She's always been a little bit of an...odd duck, but nothing like this. She wants to take you down. And she's not afraid to make sure everyone knows."

Herbert paused.

"There's a ferry leaving for Palermo tomorrow morning. The journey's a little over a day. Dickie had a friend there. A Jack Baker. He's American like you from...Florida, I believe. You could hide out for a few days while I try to smooth things over. I have the best lawyers working for me to clear your name. I just need you to lie low until it blows over. Can you do that?"

Tom nodded. Palermo. Maybe he wouldn't need to worry about returning and set up camp there. Everyone around him had grown suspicious, so the next logical explanation would be to distance himself from those around him, as painful as it was to consider. He had one day, one day to settle his affairs, and then he would be back to running, back to shoving his past in a room. But he needed the key first.

Tom agreed to Herbert's offer and Herbert spent the rest of their appointment speaking of travel arrangements. Tom pretended to listen while averting his gaze from the public. In his mind only, he could feel the red hot glares of the whole of the Piazza pouring into him. His hands began to shake.

"Are you okay?" asked Herbert.

"I'm...fine."

"Your cappucino's probably ice cold by now. I can order another if you want."

"No, thank you though. I should probably head back to my flat, pack a bag, prepare before I leave tomorrow."

"Good man. I respect a man with time management skills, something my son could never grasp," muttered Herbert. _There's the Herbert I know,_ though Tom. I conversation couldn't pass without him at least taking one pot shot at his deceased son.

"Thanks for meeting me and for helping me out. I really appreciate it."

"It's nothing, Tom. Just remember: lie low."


	6. Chapter 6

Tom searched for his suitcase before he realized that he left it at Peter's flat after they returned from Athens. In the meantime, he gathered odds-and-ends into a backpack and briefcase, easily shoving 10 pounds into a five pound sack. He worked with such alacrity that he didn't even notice his rapidly beating heart or the beads of sweat forming on his forehead. This was a new start, and he always looked forward to new start with the misplaced optimism of a young boy. He became so engrossed in his task, however, that he didn't notice a rhythmic rapping on his door. After he returned to reality, he opened the door. It was Peter with two large boxes.

"I'm sorry to show up unannounced, Tom, but I was on my way home from rehearsal and I thought I'd stop by. I picked up pizza. I didn't know what kind you liked so I got one with plain cheese and one with all the fixings."

Tom invited Peter in and Peter scanned the place while setting down the pizza on a table and placing his coat on the back of a chair. His eyes fixed on several overstuffed bags.

"Are you going somewhere? asked Peter, "or are you just doing a bit of cleaning?"

Tom once again gritted his teeth. _What an impossible man,_ he thought, but he made efforts to meet Peter's level of composure.

"Yes, actually, do you know a Jack Baker?"

"The realtor from Florida? Barely, but yes."

"Well, he has a place in Palermo that Mr. Greenleaf thought I would love to check out."

Peter smiled.

"That sounds like a fun holiday. When do you think you might be back?"

"I don't know. A week or so."

"You're packed for a long journey," noted Peter, his voice dripping with doubt.

Tom bit the inside of his lower lip, a nervous habit he acquired once he first set foot on Italian soil. He never considered Peter in agreeing to move to Palermo. He took several deep breaths. Peter, nonchalant as ever, rummaged through Tom's kitchen drawers until he founded some glasses and a bottle of Shiraz.

"I think I gave this to you for your birthday back in October," said Peter. "I'm surprised you haven't tried it yet."

"I was saving it for a special occasion."

 _There's that affable smile again,_ thought Tom. _Damn him. Damn him for making it so hard to leave._

"And what occasion is that, Tom?"

Tom looked away, looked at Peter, looked at his luggage, and looked at Peter again.

"The truth is, Peter. I'm not going to be gone for a week. I might not be coming back."

"Oh," responded Peter, his smile vanishing in an instant.

" _Oh?_ That's all you have to say?"

Peter set the dishware on the table and sat.

"I thought after our row the other night that you might be wanting out," said Peter with a baritone full of solemnity. "I understand, Tom. I don't like it, but I understand."

Peter poured Tom a glass and handed it to him. Tom waved a refusing hand and Peter drank some of it himself. Usually a wine connoisseur, the dry notes sat in his throat like sandpaper as he gazed at the man he loved who, for whatever reason, seemed to fall out of love with him. He nearly choked swallowing one of his favorite bouquets.

"I just wish you didn't feel like you had to move to get away from me."

Tom laughed in spite of himself. Peter was taken aback.

"I'm glad you find this so amusing," said Peter drily. Tom could not recall a time when Peter got angry, but he could feel Peter teetering on the edge. Tom put a hand on Peter's shoulder to clarify.

"I'm laughing because you have nothing to do with it. Peter, I'm not mad at you. I'm mad at myself."

Tom sat in the chair next to Peter, taking the bottle of Shiraz and pouring a glass for himself. He laughed again, this laugh more incredulous.

"Peter, I trust you, so I'm going to open up, if for no reason than the fact that I might never see you again."

Peter closed his eyes to stop the tears he could feel brimming his eyes. So many of the "stiff-upper-lip, Keep Calm and Carry On" Britishisms were instilled it him that crying seemed most unbecoming, even when he could feel his heart breaking. Tom continued.

"I'm moving to get away from Marge."

"Marge? Tom, I know the two of you aren't exactly friends, but this is hardly the way to settle your differences."

"Peter, you don't read the newspaper, do you?"

"Not often."

Tom walked toward an old desk and pulled out the newspaper that Herbert Greenleaf gave him that morning. He gave it to Peter, pointing to the news story. Peter read the article, stunned at Marge's accusations. _How could she say such a thing about Tom?_ thought Peter at first, but after reading on, he grew less and less defensive of his lover. The argument was well formed. Tom matched the descriptions given. His behavior, at times, was erratic to say the least. He seemed almost a serial liar. Could it be possible? Did he do any of the abominable things described in that article.

"Christ, Tom," said Peter finally.

"See what a mess I'm in, Peter? Herbert Greenleaf told Jack Baker that I could stay at his place for a while, but I might not want to come back. I might not be able to come back. With Marge on her quest to take me down, I don't know what else I can do."

"I can try to talk to her," attempted Peter, but Tom physically waved away Peter's request the way he waved away the offering of wine. "Please tell me what I _can_ do, Tom."

"You can try to talk me out of it. It won't work, but you can try."

Peter started to stand up, but Tom sat him back down. "Don't get up," said Tom.

Peter sighed. The was not the first time he had to placate Tom, nor, he wagered, would it be the last. However, he knew the amount of comfort positivity gave him, even if the positivity was superficial.

"Talk you out of it? Well, I can certainly try. You adore Rome. You adore Venice. Each region gives you so much joy. You love the culture. The music, the food. Palermo is lovely but despite its size it just doesn't have the same energy. You can't get this energy anywhere else."

Tom rummaged through the kitchen drawer until he saw his reflection, and then Peter's, shining in the blade of a knife. The memory of Dickie and Freddie's deaths came flooding back to him. He picked up the knife and looked at Peter. Was he really about to do this again?

"Tom loves the opera. Of course I'm biased, but I doubt the opera is better anywhere but here. He loves the cafes. He loves the boats. And he loves...me. God, I'm sorry, Tom, that probably sounded very selfish. This is supposed to be about you, not me."

"Keep going," said Tom as he walked in slow motion back to his chair, hiding his knife under his sleeve.

"Tom has someone to love him," said Peter, echoing the "good things about Tom Ripley" conversation from the past.

Tom felt the coolness of the blade between his fingers. Peter then noticed that Tom was focused on something else entirely.

"Tom, what's that in your sleeve?" Peter asked.

"My what?"

"Your sleeve. You keep fiddling with it."

Tom set the knife on the table. Peter's eyes grew very wide.

"And...what...were you planning on doing with that?"

"What do you think, Peter?"

Peter's voice grew more and more urgent.

"Tom, did you kill Dickie and Freddie?"

"Peter, I..."

"For God's sake, Tom, for once in your life tell me the truth!" exclaimed Peter.

"Yes. Yes, Peter, I did."


	7. Chapter 7

Tom nearly gasped at his own confession. _This is it,_ he thought. _This is the end of the facade._ He glanced over at Peter, who moved his dishes to the side, lay his forearm on the table, buried his face into his forearm, and neglecting his deeply instilled "Britishisms", wept. _I broke him,_ thought Tom. He listened in sorrow at Peter's sobs. _This man was nothing but good to me and I broke him._ Tom looked away. He couldn't bear the sight of his shattered lover.

Peter sat up straight, wiped the tears away from his cheeks, and looked at Tom. Tom seemed very apologetic, very transparent, very honest. Honesty was exactly what Peter wanted. But then Peter's eyes fixed on the knife. Tom tried to kill him. He had already successfully killed Dickie and Freddie; there was nothing stopping Tom from taking another victim.

Peter stood up from his chair and began to walk slowly toward the door, hoping he could sneak out without Tom noticing. However, a squeaky floorboard gave him away. Tom turned his head, stood up, and started to walk towards Peter. Peter tried to step more quickly, but Tom matched each move.

"Peter, where are you going?"

"I was just going to get a bit of fresh air," lied Peter, trying and failing to diffuse his own panic.

"Oh, Peter. You're not much of a liar, are you? Why were you crying? Why did you try to sneak away?"

"I just found out that the man I love is a cold-blooded killer."

Tom shuttered at Peter's insult. _Cold-blooded._ If he could just kill someone and walk away, then maybe the nightmares would have been less intense. Maybe he could have followed through choking or shanking the trembling man in front of him without any remorse. But he was too fragile for that.

"Peter, it's not like that. Dickie attacked me. It was self defense."

"And...Freddie?"

"Freddie threatened to blackmail me. He found out too much."

"Have I found out too much?"

"Peter, no." Tom reached his hand out to Peter and he recoiled.

"Tom, if you try to touch me again I'll scream!"

Tom believed Peter's threat was genuine. The walls were thin and echoed. If Peter screamed, every cop from miles around would be there in an instant to haul Tom away. Tom returned to his chair. Peter, nearly hyperventilating in panic, paced back and forth while he slowed his breathing, placing his arms behind his back. He never seemed to know what to do with his long limbs when he was uncomfortable.

As Tom sat, he tried to figure out what Peter would do. Would he turn him in? Would he sweep this all under the rug? Would he leave him? So many questions dangled in the air but he was afraid to reach for anyone. As he looked at Peter, the pity continued to fill his heart. He had no idea that such a tall man could look so small and so vulnerable. He wanted to hold him, but knew that attempting to would yield disastrous results, so he just whispered Peter's name reassuringly.

"You're not...going to Palermo," said Peter with a gasp, clearly still trying to catch his breath.

 _Shit. He IS going to turn me in. I knew it._

"I'm not?"

"No. You're going to stay here."

"You're not going to turn me into the police are you?"

"No."

Tom thought he would feel more relieved by Peter's consolation, as if a huge weight would lift off of his shoulders, but he felt nothing.

"Where am I going?"

"I'll telephone you this evening with the number of someone you can call to set up an appointment. His name is Dr. Russo. He helped a friend of mine a great deal when her mother died. Maybe he can help you as well."

Tom scoffed. "A _shrink?_ You think I need a _shrink?"_

 _"_ A _psychologist_ ," corrected Peter. "It might be a conflict of interest since I know one of his patients but I think I might be able to help you pull a few strings."

Tom was at a complete loss for words.

"There's nothing wrong with getting help, Tom. But remember: be as vague as possible when discussing things. Don't even mention the names Dickie or Freddie because if you do, he'll have no choice but to inform the police."

"Peter, why are you doing this for me?"

"I'm just as much doing this for me. You need help, Tom. And it's not the kind of help I can give you. I love you, but I don't trust you right now. Maybe, in time, I will. But for now, I just need time."

Peter reached into his pocket and placed a key in Tom's palm. Their key.

"I will call you tonight," repeated Peter. "I love you, Tom."

And just like that, Peter was gone. Tom hung his head in...shame? Horror? Relief? Worry? He couldn't quite sum up the emotion, but he knew it was overwhelming him. He glanced at the key that Peter returned and sighed bitterly. _The one time I finally open up to someone and this happens. Never again._


	8. Chapter 8

After Peter finished telephoning Tom with information regarding Dr. Russo, he began to stir. Memories of Tom raced through his head, from their first meeting at the opera to their ferry trip, right up until earlier that day. He couldn't help but shake the feeling that his desire to think the best of everyone made him naive. Had he picked up on the warning signs earlier, he might have had avoided his near-death experience.

Peter played a few bars of Vivaldi's "Sabet Mater" before recalling Tom doing just the same thing not too long ago, when Tom first showed signs of opening up about his past. He stopped with a jerk and wandered over to the window. The weather was overcast, threatening but refusing to deliver on the promise of rain. He lit a cigarette and sighed deeply. This was the kind of depression he'd not felt for some time. This was the kind of depression that he was sure would keep him up several days. He would have to remind himself to eat. He would find himself staring into the void at nothing in particular, diving into music to escape the gnawing feeling deep in his core.

Peter knew he was attracted to Tom the moment they set eyes on each other, perhaps because of his shy, awkward manner. There was nothing at all pretentious or stagey about Tom; he was a right mess, and he wore his mess on his sleeve, which Peter found refreshing. He knew that he could help Tom in some small way and wanted to make what little contribution he could. He found himself feeling like a prize idiot for having fallen for what could had very well been an act all along. While he never wanted to think ill of anyone, Tom showed signs of instability, and that instability was so quickly swept under the rug.

Peter deliberated for several minutes what to do in his predicament. He couldn't very well be left alone, not in the state he was in. He needed some company, but it very well couldn't be the company he had kept to and from Athens. After staring at his telephone, he finally called Marge.

"Marge? Hello, it's Peter."

Marge answered the phone in a hushed voice.

"Hello, Peter. It's good to hear your voice."

"Listen, love, I've run into a bit of a situation and I might need your help. Could you come over?"

"Of course. I'll be right there."

While Peter waited for Marge, he paced back and forth. He wandered to the liquor cabinet, opened the whiskey decanter, and poured himself a glass as well as one for Marge for when she arrived. He ran his fingers through his hair anxiously until he heard a knock at the door. He answered it in haste.

"Marge, thank God," he said, and swept her up in a hug. She hugged back, immediately noticing that Peter wasn't quite himself. "Fancy a glass?" he asked, pointing to the whiskey. She accepted reluctantly and perched on his sofa, her legs tucked under her. She studied him for a second. Peter was usually cool as a cucumber, and yet in that instance he seemed to be coming unglued and trying everything he could to hold on.

"Peter, what is it?" she asked.

"What's what, Marge?"

"Why are you acting so strange?"

Peter laughed, but his laughter stopped when he saw the worry in Marge's eyes. Marge was many things, but she wasn't stupid, and she wouldn't be duped easily.

"Marge, darling, I have to confess...I'm in hell right now."

"Tom?" Marge asked.

"Tom," Peter answered solemnly.

"Do you know?"

"Yes. He told me everything."

Marge sat up.

"Well, what are we waiting for? Let's go to the police! They won't think I'm crazy if you're there too!"

Peter shook his head.

"What do you mean, no?"

"Tom needs help. He won't get the kind of help he needs behind bars. I gave him Dr. Russo's number."

"You've got to be kidding me, Peter."

Peter shook his head again.

"Please be patient, Marge. If Dr. Russo sees Tom as a threat to himself or others, he can break the doctor/patient confidentiality clause and the authorities can take it from there. I don't want to incriminate him myself. I'd never be able to live with myself if I did."

It was Marge's turn to laugh.

"You're still in love with him, aren't you?"

Peter smiled guiltily.

"Besotted."


	9. Chapter 9

Tom stepped on the ferry headed for Palermo at 7:00am, helping himself to an unsatisfying breakfast of Cracker Jacks. He kept his head down to avoid any onlookers who might recognize him, and promptly found his cabin, where he stayed for the duration of the trip. He did little except stir. With no one to keep him company, the voyage was anything but enjoyable. However, he sat with a pocket sized sketchbook in hand and began to draw a mockup of Sicilian architecture much like the architecture he assumed he would see in Palermo.

Night fell and the above deck chatter dissipated. All he was left with was his thoughts. He tried to sleep but found himself tossing and turning like the ocean beneath him. He felt almost seasick, a condition he never before experienced. Every time he closed his eyes he saw flashes of dark brown hair, crystalline green eyes, a dimply smile, and even that ridiculous black coat. He heard that rich voice singing a cut from one of the operas he was working on our simply laughing at a horrible joke. He smelled bergamot and oak. He felt warm hands and long fingertips. Every sense said one thing: Peter.

He craved Peter. However, Tom was no fool and knew that, because of his actions, Peter would likely never trust Tom again. Especially since Tom would rather have died than seen a psychiatrist. It was too risky. He knew it would invite Peter's ire, but if Peter hated him already, did it make much of a difference anymore? The singing and laughter disappeared and was replaced with crying. Peter's crying. Crying that Tom caused. Tom clenched his fists so hard that his nails dug into his skin until he decided to not even try sleeping.

Tom spent the remainder of the night staring at the floor above, hoping that the trip to Palermo would be enough to get him out of Herbert Greenleaf's hair long enough to clear his name. He was no stranger to new locations, after all. He hoped Jack Baker would be accommodating without being cloying.

Night became morning and he reluctantly wandered above deck, politely nodding and greeting the odd passenger but avoiding any conversation beyond basic pleasantries. A kindly older woman asked if Tom was okay and he assured her that he was, and as soon as the arrival announcement was made, he was primed and ready to make a beeline to Jack Baker's house. When given the all clear, he stepped off the boat and took a deep breath.

He wanted desperately to take in the sights: the Churches of Martorana and San Cataldo, Teatro Massimo, Pretoria Square, and Mount Pelligrino, but he hadn't a moment to waste. He took a bus to the Piazza Pretoria until he came across an old stucco building that seemed quite bleak amongst all the splendor. He rang the doorbell and a short, slight man with sandy colored hair and a pensive expression opened the door.

"Hello, you must be Tom. I'm Jack. I hope your trip went well. Let me take your bags."

Jack was surprisingly strong for his petite stature and he walked Tom up the stairs to what would be his room.

"I'm sorry if I disappear on you. I'm working a lot these days. The piazza's got some prime real estate and it's my job to convince people to buy it. I wish I had the money my potential buyers did. Help yourself to any food or drinks. Here's a spare key so you can come and go as you please."

Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. Tom had a momentary flashback to his key conversation with Peter and involuntarily shuttered.

"Hey, you okay?" asked Jack.

"I'm fine. Thank you for being so accommodating. I appreciate it."

"Of course. Mr. Greenleaf tells me you got into a mix-up. Must be stressful. Can I get you a drink? I have some gin and vermouth. I could whip up a few makeshift martinis."

"That'd be great, thank you."

Jack smiled. This man had all the charm of Dickie with the decorum of Peter, and he was movie star handsome. Tom couldn't help but feel a bit enamored immediately. However, that dark room was reserved for one man, and he wasn't about to open up the door again. He shoved away his attraction and drank. He pretended to enjoy it, although he secretly hated gin.

"Do you want to take a quick tour around the piazza, or would you rather just stay in and rest for the evening?"

"Probably rest. Thank you, though."

"I'm up early but I'll try to be quiet when I leave for work. Would you like me to leave you be for the night? I can hang by in the living room and see what's on the television."

"I don't want to be rude, but that would probably be best right now."

"It's not rude at all! You're under a lot of stress. Don't worry about a thing, Tom. You're not an imposition. You're a guest. Anything you need, just ask."


	10. Chapter 10

Marge took a nap on Peter's sofa while he sat trying and failing to study the libretto for Faust. He laughed at the coincidence of beginning work on an opera about a man who sells his soul to the devil, as Peter was sure he had almost done the same thing, but for unconditional love rather than glory. _It was still for nothing,_ he thought as he drank his now too-cold coffee. His thoughts were soon interrupted by a telephone ring, which woke Marge with a start.

"Hello?"

"Hello, is this Peter Smith-Kinglsey?" asked an Italian voice.

"Yes, speaking."

"Mr. Smith-Kingsley, this is Dr. Russo. Your friend never showed up to his appointment. I waited for an hour. Would you like to ask him to reschedule?"

Peter clenched his jaw slightly.

"No, thank you, Dr. Russo. A reschedule will not be necessary at this time. Good day."

Peter shook his head and muttered _I knew it_ under his breath. Marge looked over at him, concerned.

"What is it?"

Peter sat down on the couch.

"Tom never made it to the appointment."

"Well, why don't we head to his flat to see what the situation is?"

"Oh, I _know_ what the situation is!" Peter responded in an uncharacteristically harsh manner. "I'm sorry, Marge. I don't mean to shout at you. I'm just frustrated. I ask one thing, just one thing of him, and he can't even do that. I'm on my last nerve right now, and I don't like it."

Marge put her hand sympathetically on her friends' shoulder.

"I understand."

"He's not going to be there, anyway."

Marge's expressed changed from concerned to confused.

"What do you mean he's not going to be there? Where is he?"

Peter contemplated telling Marge. It almost felt like a secret, and breaking the confidence seemed like a betrayal. However, Marge was one of his oldest and dearest friends and he felt she deserved to know.

"Uh...Palermo."

" _Palermo?_ He fled to Sicily?"

"Yes. He's staying with Jack Baker."

"Does Herbert Greenleaf know about this?"

"Herbert Greenleaf set it up."

"Excuse me," said Marge, and she picked up the phone with a fervor. Peter dreaded what would come next.

"Hello, Natalia, could you leave a message for Signor Greenleaf, please? Tell him that I know where Tom is and the authorities soon will too. And that Peter Smith-Kingsley can back me up."

Peter opened his mouth to interject, but then closed it.

"Yes, if you could have him call this number we'd both appreciate it. Ciao."

"What was that about?" asked Peter.

"We've got him, Peter. We've got the bastard."

The cold sense of dread increased tenfold and suddenly Peter felt as though he was carrying 100 pounds on his shoulders. He feared that this plan would backfire significantly.

"Are you sure we should be doing this?"

"Yes. He _killed people._ He killed Dickie and Freddie. He's dangerous. He cornered me once. Remember that one day when he cut his hand and I was hysterical? I thought he was going to kill me. You must know how terrifying he can be."

"Yes, Marge, I do."

"You do?"

 _Fuck it,_ thought Peter. He was already in deep.

"He tried to kill me twice."

"What?!"

"Once with a tie to a bathrobe, and another time with a knife."

 _You idiot,_ he thought to himself. Marge smirked. This was all the proof she needed. She grabbed Peter's hand rather forcefully and dragged him toward the door.

"Woah! Wait! What are you doing?"

"We're heading to the police station. Now."

"Marge-"

"It's bad enough he killed the love of my life. But I might have lost you too. I can't have that, Peter. I'm hanging on by a thread. You're the only thing that's keeping me from taking my dad's Sig and aiming it at my head. I know you still having feelings for Tom, for some reason, but..."

Peter sighed again.

"You're right," he finally conceded.


	11. Chapter 11

Tom was left to his own devices for much of the day. Over his morning coffee he contemplated whether or not to stay in or to do some sight seeing. He decided he would stay within the square. He grabbed a newspaper and, in doing so, knocked a handwritten note off the coffee table.

"I will be home at six. Please wire my secretary if you need anything."

Tom looked at the handwritten note. Jack wrote in small, neat print in all caps, more reminiscent of an architect than a realtor. His handwriting was in stark contrast to his lived-in flat. Tom studied its symmetry for a few moments before pulling himself out of such a risky headspace. He could, in no way, take on Jack Baker's identity. He was much taller and more muscular for starters. For another, Jack was nothing but friendly and welcoming. Tom shook his head. This kind of thought process was what led him to running to Palermo in the first place. He wasn't about to have another impersonation gap and he certainly wasn't about to have another casualty.

Tom looked out the window. It was beginning to rain. However, his nervous energy would not allow him to stay cooped up for much longer and he stepped outside. He hailed a taxi."

"Bonjorno! Dove vuoi andare?" asked the taxi driver.

"Uh...Teatro Massimo Vittorio Emanuel. Grazie."

The drive was short but felt endless. When he finally arrived, he opened the door to the lobby, and stood taking in the resplendence of the neoclassical architecture. He heard singing and an orchestra. They were rehearsing a familiar tune. A boy soprano made that tune immediately obvious-Sabet Mater. Tom felt his stomach rising into his throat. He mentally converted the singing into him playing the piano and Peter leaning over him tenderly, playing with his hair, rubbing his shoulders. The walls of the Massimo seemed to close on him until he couldn't take the strain anymore, rushed out of the lobby, and vomited on the sidewalk. A few passersby looked at him in concern but said nothing. He hailed another cab. _I knew leaving the flat was a bad idea,_ he thought.

When he returned he slumped into Jack's sofa and took another look at his note. _Could it be possible?_ he thought. He knew one thing for sure: he certainly didn't want to be Tom Ripley anymore. Because being Tom Ripley meant feeling in constant misery. Dickie had his miseries too, but he played them closer to the chest. He was better at bluffing, which was quite ironic considering Tom's vocation of crawling into other peoples' skins.

 _No, no, I can't,_ thought Tom. _Jack's just too...nice._

He paused.

 _But Peter is nice too. And look what I almost did to him._

Tom shook, stopping just shy of tears. What pulled him out of his stupor was a rapping on the door. He answered it and it was Jack, who noticed immediately Tom's uneasiness.

"What's going on? Are you all right?"

Tom started to walk up to his room in silence.

"Look, you can tell me, all right?"

"I find that very unlikely."

Tom stopped walking, but he stiffened. Jack noticed his discomfort right away.

"Is it your sexuality?"

"Is _what_ my sexuality?"

"You're gay, right?"

Tom started walking again.

"I don't have time for this conversation."

"It's okay, Tom. Mr. Greenleaf told me. He suspected it for a while. It's not a problem with either of us."

"Good," said Tom shortly and continued up the stairs.

"Was that what you were shaken up about?"

"With all due respect, Jack, I met you _yesterday_. I'm not quite ready to dump my life story on you just yet, okay?"

Jack conceded. "Okay. Sorry if I crossed a line. Have a good evening."

Tom crashed on his bed, mentally and physically exhausted. He couldn't help but notice how helpful and good natured Jack was. Almost too helpful and good natured. There had to be a catch. There was always a catch. And Tom would figure it out one way or another.


	12. Chapter 12

Peter felt like cutting and running before Marge had a chance to pressure him into incriminating Tom, but then considered the horrible truth again and knew that his choices were limited. Marge was right: Tom was a murderer. Tom killed people. Tom almost killed him. There needed to be repercussions for his actions. At the same time, Peter hated to be the one to lay everything out on the table.

"Peter, you're doing that thing."

"What thing?"

"The thing where you smile uncomfortably and then drop your jaw. You always do that when you feel awkward."

"Who's feeling awkward?" asked Peter, but then after Marge smirked, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief, he groaned in concession and Marge took his arm.

"You're going to pull my arm out of its socket if you're not careful!" he added, trying to diffuse the tension, but there was no diffusing. Marge's determination resulted in quite a death grip for such a small woman. Peter knew at this point that he couldn't back out.

Marge busted through the doors of the police station with Peter reluctantly in tow. She walked directly up to the man at the desk whose attitude turned from nonchalant to irritated. Arturo Anatole was a rookie but he already had some experience dealing with Marge during her outbursts, when she would take similar trips to the station in the past and to no avail. He glanced over at Peter, however, and was surprised to see that she didn't come alone.

"Signora Sherwood," Officer Anatole said with a sigh.

"Detective Anatole, this is my friend, Peter Smith-Kingsley. He has a few words."

"Wait, do we have to do this here? Now?" asked Peter, almost immediately regretting his decision to get pulled to the police station in the first place.

"Get me Alvin MacCarron," demanded Marge. Anatole called MacCarron and the two spoke at length about whether or not him taking another trip to hear the same story was worth it.

"I understand what you're saying, Arturo, but Marge is probably just going to give us the same cock-and-bull story."

"You don't understand though, Signor, she's got somebody with her this time."

"Ugh. Okay. Fine. Swell. I'll be there soon."

MacCarron hung up the phone, annoyed but curious. Marge and Peter waited at the police station for what seemed like an eternity. He shifted uncomfortably in a metal chair, the smell of mothballs and rotting onions giving him a headache. His eyes darted around the room. _If I could just be anywhere but here, anywhere at all..._

MacCarron came out of his office. Marge started to get up before MacCarron said, "no, not you. I want to talk to your friend."

Peter pointed at this chest. "Me?" he asked, bewildered.

"Yes. You."

Peter followed MacCarron into his office. He took a seat and pulled out a tape recorder. Peter could feel the beads of sweat accumulating on his forehead but said nothing.

"You've got nothing to be nervous about, Mr. Smith-Kingsley, as long as you tell me the truth."

 _The truth? How much of the truth?_ thought Peter, his eyes never leaving the tape recorder.

"Tell me what you know about the murders of Freddie Miles and Dickie Greenleaf. Do you know who killed them?"

"Umm..."

"You seem like a good guy, Smith-Kingsley. I would hate to see you perjure yourself."

 _You're going to hate me, Tom. You're really going to hate me. Dear God, please get me out of here,_ he thought.

"Yes, I do."

"And who did?"

"Tom Ripley."

MacCarron smiled awkwardly. He didn't like this any more than Peter did.

"We know he did, Peter. We've got him trapped in Palermo."

"Trapped?"

"Yes, maybe you've heard of a Jack Baker."


	13. Chapter 13

Panic began to rise in every pore of Peter's body. _A trap? They set up a trap?_ Though not responsible, he felt in that moment that he led Tom straight into the police's hands. He swallowed, stood up, put his hands behind his back, and began to pace, steadying his breathing.

"You okay, kid?" asked MacCollum. Peter nodded and, after a few seconds, sat back down. MacCollum stopped the tape recorder and stared directly at Peter, while Peter did everything he could to avert MacCollum's gaze.

"The truth is, we need you, Peter. I can call you Peter, right?"

"Ye-yes. Of-of course."

"Peter, Marge let slip last time she and I spoke that Tom had taken on a lover in the form of a dark haired British gentleman. When I noticed you in the lobby I had my suspicions that you were him. Noticing your panic right now, I think I'm correct in my assumptions."

This did nothing but increase Peter's fears. He never pretended to be anything he wasn't or hide his sexuality in any way, but homosexuality was a crime in Italy and, as such, he was always careful to never be overt about it.

"Peter, this is off-the-table. We have bigger fish to fry right now, and the biggest is one that you could probably help us with more than anything. Lovers tell each other secrets they wouldn't tell anyone else. They don't hide anything."

"He hid a few things," Peter let slip, and then closed his eyes, silently chiding himself.

"I'm sure he did, Peter. I'm sure he's done a lot of pretty awful things to you. Now's your chance to make him pay for how he treated you. We're going to ask a lot of you. We're going to plant you in Palermo and persuade him to come back to Venice. Since these crimes were committed on Italian soil, getting him out of Sicily will make the formalities much easier. Long story short, we're going to use you as bait."

"You will do no such thing," said Peter politely but firmly.

"Well, Peter, that's up to you. But if we take care of the matter ourselves, then evidence of your deviances might come back into light and you might serve some jail time along with lover boy."

"That's blackmail! You can't do that!"

MacCollum smiled.

"That's your opinion. My offer. Take it or leave it and be prepared to face the consequences. The choice is yours."

Peter took several seconds before coming to a decision. This would no doubt be the end of the line for Tom, and it would be partially his fault that Tom spends the right of his life in a secure prison or worse. This was the gallows and he was the reluctant executioner, and once he made such a decision, he could never take it back. He was killing the love of his life the way that the love of his life nearly killed him. Tom's life as a con man, Tom's livelihood, Tom's freedom, would die. Peter's shoulders felt more and more weighted as he just barely held back tears. MacCollum glanced at his watch.

"I don't have all day, Mr. Smith-Kingsley."

"Okay! Okay! I'll do it. I'll do it."

"Good man."

MacCollum handed a Colt .11 to Peter.

"I hope you don't need to use this," he said.

"Yeah, me either," replied Peter, his voice quavering.

Peter walked out of the office broken. Marge gave him a hug as he had himself a quick cry and then straightened his coat.

"My father once told me that it was frightfully bad form to cry in public. I guess I was never one for formalities, anyway."

Marge smiled sympathetically.

"You _are_ doing the right thing," she reassured him once more.

"God, I certainly hope so. Because I've never felt more wrong in my life."

Peter then remembered MacCollum's threat and turned away, angry but trying and failing not to show it.

"Thanks a lot, by the way," he said.

"For what?"

"Outing me to the police!"

"What's the big deal?"

"Marge do you know what they do to homosexuals in prison?"

Marge stopped and tried to give Peter another hug, but he brushed it off. She never considered that Peter would be put into such an impossible situation. Her objective was take down Tom, but not make other people suffer as a result.

"I'm sorry, Peter. I wasn't thinking."

"Yeah, that's pretty bloody obvious," he muttered under his breath, equal parts furious and terrified.

"Peter!"

"I'm going to head home a different way. Good night, Marge."

"Peter!" she called, but he had already walked off in despondency. She hung her head in equal parts shame and worry for her friend.


	14. Chapter 14

Peter spent quite some time on the phone, first with MacCollum, then with Jack Baker. He was to travel to Palermo via Marge's father's boat. He agreed, his reservations in the hundreds. He then picked up the phone to call Marge and tell her the plan.

"Hello, Marge, it's Peter."

Marge's voice became very quiet and contrite.

"Hi, Peter."

"Were you informed of the plan?"

"Yes. We leave first thing tomorrow morning. Uh...Peter?"

"Yes, Marge?"

"I was an idiot. I didn't mean to-"

"It's fine, Marge," intoned Peter in a way that indicated it was anything but "fine". "I'll meet you at the docks at dawn."

"Peter, can't we talk about this?"

"I'd rather not right now. Sorry. Good night."

Peter hung up the phone abruptly and then lit himself a cigarette. The trap was set. Peter just needed to coax Tom to fall into it. He felt disgusted with himself for agreeing to do such a thing. He looked out the window and saw another overcast day. The sun hardly ever seemed to shine anymore; everything was cast in a malevolent grey, much like his life. When he later lay in bed, he didn't even try sleeping. He just stared at the ceiling for hours until his body was ready to move again. He checked his alarm clock and saw that it was 6:30 am. The sun would be up soon.

 _This is your last chance to back out,_ he thought, but he knew, at this point, he was optionless. He _had_ to do this. He greeted Marge politely yet tepidly and the two sailed mostly in silence. Every once in a while Marge would catch a glimpse of Peter staring out into the horizon with a look of complete melancholy, and knew that the melancholy wasn't helped by her big mouth. She walked up to Peter who was standing at the bow with his arms crossed.

"Peter, when are we going to talk about this?"

"Marge, right now I have only one thing on my mind: get through this. Once we do, then we might be able to have a proper conversation."

Marge bristled at Peter's avoidance and walked away. With all that he was instructed to do, he could not let his own personal emotions interfere. Not when so much was at stake. He was bait. Now he just needed to allow himself to be caught.


	15. Chapter 15

Jack Baker did not return that evening, nor the next day, nor the next. Tom, house-ridden and disheveled, desperate to figure out Jack's aim, decided to root through his things. Unable to digest a full meal, Tom settled on a bowl of oatmeal. He reached into the pantry of the kitchen and noticed a hanging file basket attached to the wall, containing various mail and letters. Tom found nothing incriminating until a folded up telegram caught his eye. He unfolded it and his eyes devoured the contents. The heading read "Jack Michael Baker, Polizia di Stato".

He was an informant for the police. A plant. Tom could feel the bile rising in his throat again as feelings of grief and rage overcame him. _They lured me into their little trap,_ he thought, disgusted with himself for having let too many things slip. He continued to read the telegram as it described exactly what Jack's mission was. Should Jack had failed, Tom would become a matter of the Arma dei Carabinier. He crumpled up the sheet of paper in anger and let it fall to the floor.

His initial thought was to wait until Jack got home and immediately kill him. But if Jack were to die, the cold arm of the Carabinieri would take him away. Murdering a cop would never give him any leverage or any chance to reinvent himself. He couldn't leave. There was a glorified hit on him and he was, essentially, a walking target. Tom was at a loss.

Several hours passed and he heard a knock on the door. _Shit,_ he thought. He was sure it was Jack. He looked around the room in terror. Would this be the day Jack decided to apprehend Tom?

As the knocking grew louder and louder Tom's curiosity overtook him and he opened the door.

"Jack, sorry it took me a while, I was - _Peter?"_

Peter gave a pained expression.

"Hello, Tom."

"Peter, what the hell are you doing here?"

Peter dropped his voice to a whisper.

"I've come to take you home."

 _Home,_ he thought bitterly. _What's home anymore?_

"No."

"No?"

"Peter, I said when I was going to Palermo that I wouldn't be coming back. And I'm a man of my word."

" _Since when?!"_ snapped Peter, incredulously. Tom was taken aback.

"That little outburst is a little...uncharacteristic of you, Peter."

"I'm sorry if being put in an impossible position makes me a bit hostile."

"And what position is that?"

"Bait," Peter said quietly, his eyes downcast.

 _They got Peter involved?!_ Tom's thoughts roared at him. Tom began to flare his nostrils. Peter recoiled a bit but tried desperately to stand his ground.

"They know you're here, Tom."

"How?"

"Marge called in MacCollum. He got me to talk."

Tom, with no hesitation, punched Peter in the face with every ounce of his strength and Peter fell to the floor, clutching his bloodied nose. Tom seethed.

"You Judas! You gutless little bastard! How could you?" Tom shouted. Peter winced. The words hurt more than his nose did.

"You think I liked being in this position, Tom? It's been eating me up inside! If I kept quiet, they would have arrested me too!"

"What?"

"Marge kind of...let slip that I was gay."

"What?" Tom repeated.

"I had no choice, Tom."

"So you're doing this to save your own hide."

"With all due respect, Tom, when have you _ever_ done _anything_ for anyone besides yourself?"

Peter was right, and Tom hated him for it.

"Tom, if we get out of here right now, we can both make a run for it. We don't have to keep tiptoeing around. I could take you back to England. You could see my old stomping grounds."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't trust you, Peter."

Peter noticed Tom encroaching upon him and stood up slowly. Tom, in a desire to tear Peter limb from limb, grabbed his wrist, and twisted until it broke. Peter's scream of pain as well as the sound of his bones cracking rang through Tom's ears. Peter was once again reduced to a scared child in Tom's presence. Tom backed up and saw the former love of his life clutching his wrist, and fell to the floor. He wanted to cry, but no tears came. Just an overwhelming feeling of regret.

He heard urging knocking on the door, and then a familiar voice.

"Tom Ripley, this is Jack. In the name of the law, _open the door._ "

"Or what?!" demanded Tom.

"Peter, are you locked and loaded?"

Peter gasped for air before replying "yes."

"Tom, open the door."

"NO!"

"Peter, take the gun out."

Peter took his Colt out of his inner coat pocket with his one uninjured hand and, with all the strength he had in him, aimed it at Tom. Tom laughed.

"What are you going to do with that, Peter?"

"Tom, DON'T MAKE ME DO THIS!" begged Peter.

"I'll ask you one more time, Tom...open the door."

"You'll have to kill me first."

"I won't. He will. Peter...shoot."

Peter, quaking with fear, shot the gun but misfired. Tom wrestled the gun out of Peter's hand. Jack took his own gun while the two fought, shot the lock off the door, and stepped in.

"Peter, get out of the way," instructed Jack. Peter complied and Jack shot his gun at Tom. He was a perfect shot. It went right through Tom's shriveled heart. Tom collapsed. Peter's face fell in horror and agony as he watched the blood gush out of Tom's chest. Tom was dead and Peter was part of it. He became a hero that night, and he felt like the cruelest villain.

"Peter, you did the right thing," said Jack.

"I really wish people would stop saying that," Peter remarked, his voice dark and bitter. Peter looked so grieved that Jack decided to leave him alone for a few moments. As soon as the door closed, he broke into horrified, confused, pained sobs. He sat on the floor crying for quite some time, but stopped once he had the realization that he would never have to cry over Tom Ripley again. He closed Tom's eyelids and gave him a kiss on the forehead before stepping outside, clutching his hand, walking toward Marge's father's boat. Marge hugged him.

"Aah! Careful!"

"What happened?"

"He broke my wrist. And my nose. And...my heart."

"Is he…" she couldn't even say the word _dead_.

"Yes."

"Oh," she said, equal parts despondent, relieved, and guilty for the relief.

"Oh," Peter agreed.

"I really am sorry for telling them about you and Tom's affair-"

"It's okay. Really. It doesn't make much difference now, anyway."

"No, I suppose not."

The two sat in silence for quite some time, watching the sun set. Tom Ripley's last day on earth was about to draw to a close. Marge rested her head on Peter's shoulder and they both took in a deep breath. The barrage of madness was over. They were free of Tom. And freedom never felt so empty.

"You still love him, don't you?" she asked, echoing their earlier conversation.

Peter didn't miss a beat.

"Besotted."


End file.
